


Do Not Go Gentle

by Shamandalie



Category: Football RPF
Genre: (im for real with this tag), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sadness, The Walking Dead AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 21:06:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7907635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shamandalie/pseuds/Shamandalie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years. Since people started getting sick. Since they started dying. Since they came back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Not Go Gentle

_And there are corpses,_   
_feet made of cold and sticky clay,_   
_death is inside the bones,_   
_like a barking where there are no dogs,_   
_coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,_   
_growing in the damp air like tears of rain._

 

One day, Death became the ruler. She swept through the entire Earth, killing mercilessly, and, as if this wasn’t enough, after the bodies lay on the cold, damp ground, unmoving, thankfully free of pain and horror, she brought them back to life. The dead, now not so anymore, stood up, hungry. Always hungry.

Not everything died, though. Not the trees, nor the flowers. They grew wild, looking free somehow, one next to the other, no neatness to it, no restraints, no....signs of human interference, really. And the stars - the stars!- saying that they just didn't die would be an understatement, if not an insult. They relived, and filled the entire sky with their light.

So, really, the only thing that was meant to die and kept dying, was humankind.

***  
At first it is hard for him to accept that the Earth is still spinning, that the flowers still grow, that the Earth looks much more beautiful now than it ever used to; it seems almost offensive, that in the moments of humanity’s biggest weakness and defeat, the world - their world - seems to flourish. But, how could it be any different, really? Humans, always considering themselves invincible and immortal, were like a plague to this Earth of theirs. No wonder that it finally tried to get rid of them. This apocalyptic disease must have been some kind of divine intervention, he thinks in retrospect. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe humans, in their pride, took it into their own hands to wipe out themselves. That is more likely.

But these thoughts belong in a different life, in a different world. This world is not fit for reverie. It is better not to think at all, so that’s what he does. He stops wondering about why’s altogether, concentrating on how’s -how to survive, how to keep going.

Every night, he looks up to the sky, thankful for the stars spotting it so fully. The firmament soon becomes the only thing that can soothe his tortured mind, even if only for a little while.

***  
Three years. It’s been three years now. He stares at the little paper calendar he took from the walker’s pocket - the man residing in the body before the monster carefully crossed out every single passing day - and he’s fighting hard to suppress the urge to scream his lungs out.

Three years. Since people started getting sick. Since they started dying. Since they came back.  
Three unbearable years of loneliness and misery and fear. He feels so alone, so lonely, as if he was the last man on Earth. He knows there are people out there somewhere, sometimes their paths cross, but he also knows that he’s destined to be alone. To die alone.

***  
He wakes up with dew in his hair, and shivers running through his entire body. He is cold, so cold - and it's only the end of September (at least as far as he knows). Finding some place safe and warm is a necessity now, not only an option. Finding people, too. People are the most important thing in this new world, and he won’t survive another winter having only stars as his company.  
The man sits, wrapping the blanket thightly around his skinny, too skinny, body.  
'Philipp, Philipp, Philipp...'  
His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper, and he knows he should talk more, even to himself maybe, because everyday getting something out is becoming harder than the day before.  
This ritual used to be longer - he would wake up and immediately start talking - ' I am Philipp Lahm. I am thirty years old-' et cetera, et cetera. Just to remember. Just to...stay human. But the surnames, no matter how recognizable once, ceased to matter a long time ago. So he only repeats his name now. And he still isn't convinced that it is something really worth remembering. After all, everything that he is now, is not dead.

***  
Every day looks almost exactly the same: he is cold and hungry, and walks for too many kilometers to count. He kills single walkers, and changes his routes when he spots the herds. For the night, he crashes at some old shops, robbed clean just after the outbreak and now completely covered in dust, or just sleeps in the forest, waking up at every little sound. Sometimes, his knife ends up pointed to one of his wrists, the tip pressing the skin just lightly. He wonders if he could do it. Or maybe he is just waiting for an appropriate time.

***  
Miracles don’t happen. Not in this world, anyway, and he stopped asking for one ages ago. It’s not his style, begging some forces in which he never really believed in to bring him peace. But one day, something happens and hell if the word ‘miracle’ isn’t the only one which can describe it.  
The rustling of the leaves, the movement in the trees, it usually means trouble. This far into the apocalypse, it doesn't matter if you encounter a walker or a human on your way. Both are dangerous and, truth to be told, Philipp prefers to deal with the already dead.

He knows it isn't a walker right away - he can hear footsteps, not the snarling and this dreadful, unmistakable sound of dead feet being dragged by sheer force of whatever it is that makes the corpses move. The person isn't making a good job of being quiet, which calms Philipp a little. The bad people - if the words good and bad still hold any meaning, that is - are cautious, their movements almost inaudible, their presence unknown until they have a gun pointed to your head.

Still, he gets a good hold of his gun. He doesn't have any bullets and shooting isn't a talent of his, but this person doesn't know that. Owning a gun already gives him the advantage. He almost died trying to get it, but it kept him safe and trouble-free ever since.

'Come out slowly,' says Philipp calmly, knowing that raising his voice is senseless. If he has to fight, he would prefer no walkers to be there.

Everything becomes silent and Philipp suddenly realises that the person hasn't spotted him before. He curses under his nose. Nice way to fuck up, captain.

'Hands raised or I'll shoot you.'

The leaves rustle again. Philipp's finger immediately goes to gun's safety.

'I'm coming out! I didn't understand what you said but you don't need this gun.'

Philipp's breath suddenly catches in his throat and he lowers his gun immediately, his hands shaking. He knows this voice. God, he knows this voice.

And he knows the man emerging from the woods. The brown hair weren't his usual style, he used to dye them blond, but. His eyes are the same, brown and big, and the sight of his beautiful face might make him cry from the first time since - since. Tears sting his eyes and he has to blink rapidly.

'Fernando?', he says, his voice faint.

The Spaniard looks at him and smiles weakly, also clearly shocked. The smile doesn't reach his eyes or show his dimples, but it's genuine, as genuine as it gets when someone looks as exhausted as Torres does.

His eyes are bloodshot, the circles under them violently blue. He has a large bruise covering his entire left cheek, and he is so damn skinny. The clothes he wears are just plain garbage, the shirt so full of holes Philipp can see his bruised ribs. He looks like he might collapse any second.

'Philipp,'

His voice is just as unused as Philipp's. He can almost hear the 'e' at the end of his name, and he smiles. Actually, he starts to laugh, a bit hysterically, tears spilling from his eyes. And then he goes to hug the man in front of him, because, God. Seeing him makes him feel a bit more alive.

Fernando wraps his arms around him, tightly. Dry sobs leave his throat, his chest heaving with them.

Philipp doesn't stop laughing. He knows he should restrain himself, he knows that he’s being too loud, that the walkers will be there any minute if he doesn’t stop, but he can’t.

They hold each other tight like if they were lovers once. The funny thing is, they didn't even know each other for real before all this. Yes, they talked few times. They definitely respected each other. Philipp might have thought about Fernando's freckles a bit more often that it was necessary, maybe. But honestly, the only thing they had in common was being at the very top of the football world.

Friendly strangers, never meant to be anything more, they once were. So Philipp laughs, because the only thing that is important now, is Fernando’s presence. His voice, his freckles, his brown hair. And his arms, holding Philipp tight, almost as if intending to never let him go. And Philipp doesn’t want them to.

**Author's Note:**

> i've been trying to write this fic for ages now and figured i won't ever finish it if i don't start posting. yeah. the next chapter is definitely coming since i have some part of it already written, and i intend to finish the entire fic before my term starts in october. 
> 
> raise your hands and leave comments if u liked the idea!!
> 
> ahh almost forgot to say that i don't have a beta, which is no news at all, so all mistakes are mine and please point them to me.
> 
> tumblr: philipplahmz


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